The Essence Of What Is Awesome
by moonscraper
Summary: The old hands of Final Fantasy VII find themselves in a world plunged into the depths of depravity where nothing is as it seems. Vincent is a murderous religious convert, Cloud a sex addict and Tifa a re-incarnation of Jesus Christ.


_**THE ESSENCE OF WHAT IS AWESOME**_

**By "Moonscraper"**

**A Brief Authorial Note: **You might have read this before. You might have not. What is different in this publication is that I have taken much of your feedback and have tried to improve this story. I especially thank whoever suggested that I add in Chuck Norris and Dr. Jamie Clay Hysjulien for the basis of Cloud's lecture on Karl Marx in Part II.

What is also different is that while the first publication of my epic pornography was innocent in its violation of the censor on this publication is done with the full knowledge of what (and several fellow authors) consider the limits of my soul and imagination. Keep in mind, dear readers, I was just bored

**PART I: If That's A Confession, My Ass Is A Banjo!**

**Chapter I. The Encounter.**

Cloud pulled off his jersey and stroked his sweaty, well-toned chest. He had been working all morning mixing concrete and laying out the foundation for the small shop he had been commissioned to construct. Now, having finished the last batch of concrete, he walked briskly into the company trailer, intending to strip off his shirt and jeans and then step into the shower.

Instead he stopped and looked down at a beautiful woman who was sleeping on top of the small counter that served as the dining table for the trailer. She wore tight black shorts and a skimpy white top that buttoned just beneath her luscious breasts. Standing there, staring at her gorgeous body, Cloud found himself beginning to salivate at the thought of lying with her. Of her fingers gently stroking his firm cock until his eardrums bulged and milky cum began to spatter on the floor. Then he would grab her in his muscled arms, slam her against the thin walls of the trailer and enter her a passion that would defy reason, driving into her wildly until he filled her from the crown to the toe top full of cum. Weighted down by the sheer sexuality of his fantasy, Cloud slowly leaned against the door frame. He could feel himself stiffening and a slight smile began to play across his face.

The girl awoke with a sigh of pleasure that would "fucking kill a horse" to quote David Mamet, one of Cloud's favorite writers. Her eyes fluttered, a hand rose to her perfect stomach and she rose into a sitting position. Cloud inadvertently moved towards her, fighting the desire to tear through the thin material of her shirt.

The girl turned slowly to him and laughed. Her laughter had the sound of a thousand tinkling bells, each one with his name written upon it. Cloud felt his mouth open and words, words that were not his own, began to spill out: "I have been swept away in an amorous whirlwind."

Cloud stammered. His eyes filled with tears at the beauty of her eyes. His cock throbbed with desire. His skin gleamed with girl smiled and placed one of her porcelain hands on his cheek. "If you want me that badly, just say it. I've been wanted all my life. You don't need to adorn desire with beautiful words; you just need to fuck the shit out of me."

Cloud, tossing away the question of where this angel had come from and why she was here, screamed in a voice not his own:

"I WANT YOU NOW YOU FUCKING CUNT!"

Instantly the girl was on her knees. Her practiced hands found the lock on Cloud's belt and undid with uncanny ease. She then tore his pants from him and, pausing a moment to remove Cloud all-too-tight briefs, placed his cock between her perfect lips.

A lesser man would have come instantly. Cloud however, was no lesser man. He seized her by the hair and thrust his cock down her throat. She purred like cat and slowly licked his cock clean of sweat and cum. Then she carefully worked her way up his body until her lips met his. Cloud's hands wrapped around her hips and in one smooth motion tore off her shorts. She wore nothing underneath. The girl wrapped her legs around his waist and Cloud eagerly lifted her into the air, driving himself into her with force of an automobile. She screamed, wailed, howled and cried. Cloud grunted, huffed, moaned and, when he came, shrieked like a banshee. The girl, somehow knowing when Cloud was on the brink, drove her index finger into Cloud's anus. Cloud felt a boiling sensation beneath his naval and was suddenly consumed by a wave of red passion. The last thing he heard before passing out on the cheap carpet of the company trailer was: "TAKE ME NOW FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST!"

**Chapter II. Birth of the Awakening.**

Across the continent Tifa Lockhart was slowly bending over her little Debbie's muffin oven when a bullwhip cracked smartly across her buttocks.

"FOOL!" cried Jerome's voice "I SAID MAKE ME A LITTLE DEBBIE SANDWICH! I DON'T WANT ANY FUCKING MUFFINS!"

Tifa, nursing her aching ass, crawled across the floor to her little Debbie sandwich machine. She carefully placed small pieces of little Debbie bread into the oven and crawled back into bed with Jerome. Tifa fell back onto her pillow and, taking a second to the look at the negligee Jerome forced her to wear, wondered why a woman of her age was adhering to bizarre whims of an ex-circus lion tamer.

After Cloud had discovered his secret passion was architecture and not kicking the shit out of evil monsters, he had quickly abandoned Tifa and her dreams of re-opening 7th Heaven and starting a family. She had drunken herself into a deep depression, only coming out when she realized she had run out of Jerome had entered her life. He was 57 at the time and had recently retired as a circus lion tamer. Realizing he had no marketable skills or any friends to speak of he had wandered the continent searching for a woman who would "accept him for what he was". He had spoke with such eloquence at the time that Tifa had fallen madly in love with him. On one memorable night he had carried her across the rooftops of Deling City, swinging from flagpole to cable tower with his well-greased bullwhip.

That romance had swiftly come to a close when Tifa discovered Jerome's rather bizarre obsession with little Debbie. After they were married Jerome insisted that all their food must be made from little Debbie ovens. At first Tifa had thought he was joking, but after she had brought home chicken from a local produce company Jerome had dressed up like an artic penguin and had tortured her with an electric taser until she started to see Jesus Christ leaning on all their furniture. After that horrific night Tifa made sure to always employ her little Debbie ovens.

The oddity did not end there. Soon after Jerome demanded that Tifa call him "Fireman", claiming that ever since he was child he had wanted to "ride the Dalmatian". It was with great reluctance that Tifa acquiesced to his subsequent request: to dress in a white negligee and splatter herself with black paint. When they finally went to bed together, Jerome refused to call her anything but "Pongo".

Tifa endured this bizarre treatment for thirteen years. At the end of their relationship she was thirty five. He was seventy. All the while she wished half-heartedly that someone would come and rescue her. Well, finally someone did. And his name was William Blake. He was an insane poet. But before we get to that…

**Chapter III. Beginnings of the Marvel Horror.**

"It takes a village to raise a child". Cid Highwind always thought about things like that when he was fucking Yuffie up the ass. It wasn't that she wasn't a good fuck or that he couldn't keep it up. Cid just liked to let his mind wander and enjoyed exploring a variety of thoughts. He felt that Yuffie enjoyed it more that way as well. Because of his lack of investment in their sexual relationship, Yuffie was able to pretend that he was someone else when he wasn't enough to get her off. Sometimes just to spice things up Cid would drop cigarette ash onto her bare ass. She always screamed and tried to jerk away. He would grab her hips and ride her like a bronco until she subsided. In his old age, Cid had become rather abusive. He hated it when she screamed Cloud or Vincent's name instead of his. Cloud was just one of those idiotic body-builder shithead's and Vincent was a fucking corpse. How could she possibly get off thinking about a fucking corpse?! In his anger, Cid fucked her all the harder.

Yuffie closed her eyes and tried to imagine it was Cloud's luscious cock in her ass instead of Cid's. Once, when she had dressed up like Minnie Mouse and come to Cloud in his sleep, she had seen his cock. The disguise she chose was one of hundreds in her repertoire. Little did she know Cloud had a secret yearning for Minnie and her sleek black flesh. Thinking God had finally answered his prayers; Cloud tore off his pants and pulled "Minnie" towards him. Yuffie backpedaled swiftly and caught one clear look at Cloud's infamous, spiky cock before running for the door, Cloud's animalistic screams of rage reverberating in her skull and her own desire pulsing within her minute fingers.

Now Yuffie thanked goodness she had seen his cock and used that one beautiful image to drive herself into blissful orgasm every time Cid decided it was time to fuck. She used it this time as well and managed to get off before he did and subsided before he could come. Disgusted with her, Cid locked her in her magic trunk and placed that trunk next to the oven so she would stay nice and toasty. The "magic" of Yuffie's trunk came in the form of cheap sequins and glue-on stars, so really he just locked in her a fucking box.

Having stored Yuffie away, Cid walked outside into the artic cold and lit a cigarette. A decade had passed since he had finished building his Polar Palace of Sexual Amusement. Yuffie had been there for every amusement-filled moment. However, Cid was sixty years old. How long could he continue to be amused in his Polar Palace?

"NOT LONG BITCH!" screamed Vincent as he inexplicably descended from a passing cumulonimbus cloud. Cid, startled by this sudden intrusion, drew his seventeen-barreled revolver and pointed it at the zombie hybrid before him.

"What the fuck do you want? I thought you were off raping livestock."

Vincent's eyebrows narrowed slightly and he brandished his brass arm thing at Cid as he bellowed:"SHUT UP YOU OLD FUCKER! I KNOW THAT YOU HAVE BEEN CONSUMED BY SATAN!" Cid's nostrils flared as he realized the horrific truth.

"You've become one of those born-again Christian's haven't you?" Vincent smiled and drew his pathetic, one-barreled 9mm pistol.

"Very good. It usually takes my prey several minutes to discover the origin of my spiritual beliefs! And now I am going to blow your fucking brains out!" Vincent raised his pistol and pulled the trigger only to realize he had failed to reload after his last Semite execution.

"YOUR PREY?" screamed Cid. "WHO THE FUCK CALLS PEOPLE 'PREY'? I SURE AS SHIT DON'T DO THAT! YOU'RE FUCKED" Cid raised his massive-ass seventeen-barreled revolver and pulled the trigger.

Vincent quickly rolled to his left and threw his reserve battle-ax at Cid. Cid was baffled by the massive ax that flew at him and forgot to move out the fucking way. He got roasted.  
Vincent took a moment to look at Cid's mutilated body and then dropped trow and pissed on his corpse. He made sure to extinguish the remains of Cid's clove cigarette. He then strode into Cid's Polar Palace of Sexual Amusement, sniffing disdainful at the leather curtains that adorned the windows and the cumstained animal rugs spread across the floor. Vincent paused a moment and then again dropped trow, this time taking a massive shit on Cid's floor.

Vincent might have continued his pilgrimage around Cid's Polar Palace of Sexual Amusement had not he heard Yuffie's muffled moans as she masturbated while thinking about Cloud's cock. Vincent smiled and stealthily moved over to Yuffie's magic trunk. He whispered softly and sweetly to her:

"Dearest, sexuality is not condoned by our Lord." Yuffie gasped and Vincent saw the trunk rock back and forth.

"Vincent?! Is that you? Have you come to rescue me?" Vincent's smile grew wider and he reached into his coat pocket to pull out a hammer and nails.

"No dear. My previous name was Vincent but the Good Lord knows me as "Jeremiah". Please pardon me while I crucify you." The trunk started shaking wildly as Yuffie discovered the horrific truth:

"You've become one of those born-again Christians haven't you?" Jeremiah smiled as he snapped the lock on the trunk and murmured in his best Sunday School voice:

"Very good. It usually takes my prey several minutes to discover the origin of my spiritual beliefs." Jeremiah opened the trunk revealing a scantily-clad Yuffie covered in cheap sequins and glue-on stars. She looked at him with all the horror that goes with someone aware of his or her impending crucifixion. Jeremiah did not disappoint. However, before Jeremiah began his ritual he was careful to drop trow and shit on her face.

**Chapter IV. Conversion into Chaos.**

Cloud awoke covered in cum and sweat and smelling as bad as a pile of shit. The girl he had arbitrarily fucked the shit out of had vanished into the night air, leaving him alone amidst fragments of sexual perfection. He moaned softly as tried to move, realizing that the mystery girl's final sexual move (index in the anus) had damaged his sphincter muscles. Walking normally would be impossible for a few weeks. Cloud was nothing if not resourceful and quickly put together a ramshackle wheelchair. Looking about the shitty confines of the company trailer (the tasteless wallpaper, the dirty countertops and empty cabinets and finally the cumstained floor) he realized the kicking the shit out of evil monsters had been a lot of more fun then being an architect. He had gotten to fuck a lot more women. The direction his life was going in was depressing enough for Cloud to consider suicide.

So, for a few moments, Cloud produced the antique dueling pistol given to him for some reason by Barrett when they parted ways and put the barrel in his mouth. And he pulled the trigger. !BLAM!

For some reason or another the bullet didn't kill Cloud. It tore the shit out of his vocal cords so that when he wanted to talk he could only making an irritating rasping noise that was annoying as fuck and it blew out the back of throat so that he started bleeding and had to wheel himself to nearby hospital. But no, he didn't die.

He did however undergo several months worth of therapy (both physical and mental) and in the end came out a much more disturbed person (rape addiction). He decided that to really complete his mental and physical transformation he would change his name and convert to a new religion. He decided to convert to Judaism. Randomly.

**Chapter V. The Realization of Destiny.**

"Pongo" felt "Fireman's" massive eighteen inch sausage cock plunge into her anus. The depth and power of "Fireman's" sexual desire that night was beyond anything "Pongo" had anticipated when she had splattered herself with black paint an hour before. "Pongo" moaned slightly and tried to imagine something pleasant (like a taffy pull or a county fair) in order to block out the bizarreness that was their nightly sexual routine. Tifa knew that Jerome hadn't had enough to eat this evening (one of her little Debbie ovens was out of batteries) and that tonight she was in for an exceptionally bizarre sexual experience. She was not wrong.

Tonight Jerome had donned the costume of an Ox and spoke with a severe southern accent. Calling her "Tex" and "Bitchly" he mounted her like a steer and began to cover them both in mayonnaise and mustard. He claimed that this drove him to a state of "heat". Jerome did not hesitate to shit constantly throughout the experience and soon a most bizarre scent filled their bedroom.

Tifa's night might have ended in an Ox fuck-fest had not an extremely badass poet named William Blake walked by the cheap apartment rented by Jerome in the Red Light District of Deling City. Because he was such an extreme badass, William Blake knew what was going on just by the smell of sexfest that was going on a few feet beside him. With the power of Awesome he burst through the cheap tin walls, abruptly ending the ox fuck fest that had consumed Tifa and Jerome.

Jerome, still glad in his Ox costume, withdrew from Tifa and grabbed his well-greased bullwhip. Leaping over the bed, he swung his sausage cock in a wide arc and at the same time swung his whip, creating two destructive forces of Blake whipped out a copy of Auguries of Innocence and shouted "A Robin Redbreast In A Cage Puts All Heaven In A Rage" and a fucking robin appeared and ate Jerome.

Tifa, covered in mayonnaise, mustard, shit, cum and black paint, smiled at William Blake and started to cry because she realized how incredibly awful her life had become. William Blake said: "Our world is contained between two empyrean forces: Reason and Desire. Christianity vies for the triumph of Reason over Desire so that we might elevate to Heaven and the Sublime and become true, rational beings. Your mission and mine are now one in the same. You are an Agent of Desire. We must spread the essential energy of the human and combat the negating forces of Reason."

With those words he vanished in a sweep of poetic awesomeness and Tifa slowly moved off the bed and into the shower. She spent many hours under the hot water, washing away years of sexual oddities and various forms of abuse. When she was ready she found the one pair of clothes she owned that Jerome hadn't picked out (he always wanted her to wear bunny suits) and left that cheap apartment in the Red Light District of Deling City and began to wander to fulfill William Blake's command.

**End of Part I**

PART II**: Sexual Relations With The Bride Of Frankenstein Yield Only Unhappiness **

**By "Moonscraper"**

(a companion piece to, and continuation of the events described in, _**If That's A Confession, My Ass Is a Banjo!, **_also by_ "Moonscraper"._)

**Chapter VI. The Madness.**

Cait Sith sighed slightly as he looked up from the body of the deceased child that was stretched out on the operating table in front of him. His attempts at surgery had been entirely unsuccessful. The child's arm had been sewn to it's sternum (no small feat) and it's leg had been replaced by a large orange monkey wrench and the fucking kid was still dead. Cait Sith eased his exceptionally large ass into an exceptionally large leather easy chair that was placed conveniently behind him and took out his special Texas syringe that he had bought in Texas. He casually went through the movements of injecting heroin into his brain (which involved him slamming a syringe into his forehead and screaming) and then, equally as casually, began to reflect on the exceptionally bizarre turn his life had taken.

Cait Sith spent most of his time breaking into mortuaries and the odd coroner's office and stealing dead bodies to perform surgery on, hoping that replacing a limb here and there would have some miraculous effect and bring someone back to life. He would give said bodies stuffed animals for heads and rolling pins for cocks and on one memorable put a large car engine in someone's pelvic bowl. Then, throwing abandon to the winds, he would mercilessly fuck the dead body until it was shaken to pieces and then cum would spurt from Cait Sith's eight foot elephant penis with the force of fucking atom bomb.

Why Cait Sith did this was a secret kept even from him. It was not a lucrative hobby and it had yet to earn him any friends. The explanation he had created for himself in case anyone asked was that on a warm morning in August he had awoken from his hammock with the desire to help people. The rest was Cait Sith's own invention. So strong was his dedication to the felicity of mankind that Cait Sith took it upon himself to brutally murder or destroy anything that could potentially serve as a distraction. Cait Sith kept himself from being lonely by making cardboard cutouts of local political figures and holding staff meetings with these cutouts in which he passed ludicrous and bizarre laws permitting things like bestiality and necrophilia. Both were very important issues to him.

After the pain of a needle driving into his fucking brain had subsided Cait Sith doused the body of the kid in gasoline and lit him on fire. Cait Sith found that this was a very efficient and pure way to dispose of the bodies of those he attempted to "cure". He often would roast bratwursts over the flames and drink cheap beer (such as Miller Light and Schlitz, both of which reminded him of chilled piss) as a means of celebrating the events of the day.

Having disposed of the body (and eaten several tasty bratwursts) Cait Sith jumped into his hammock and stared at the many pictures of Kieran Culkin he had glued on his ceiling. Before he went to sleep he always liked to imagine being a movie directed by Steven Spielberg in which he played opposite Kieran Culkin. Anyone in the room would have heard this soft moan/squeal/ sound byte:"Kieran, why don't you remove the Lego's from your coccyx and insert your tongue into my FUCKING RECTUM AND MAKE ME CUM WITH THE FORCE OF A GODDAMN TORNADO! BOMBS AWAY FUCK THE JAPS OPEN UP WITH AGENT ORANGE AND KILL MY FUCKING MOTHER!" Strange stuff indeed.

Cait Sith's eyes fluttered closed and his mind traveled to wherever the minds of fucking demented wackos go. He also suffered a massive heart-attack and a huge stroke, a grand mal seizure and he died. This was because "Jeremiah" did not approve of Cait Sith's supporting the politician Alan Keyes. So when "Jeremiah" found out, he spiked Cait Sith's Schlitz beer with the "Beijing Cocktail", like in that subpar film **Crank**. And when they (ironically, the very coroners that Cait Sith had robbed) found his "body" they first said:

"Why is there a needle stuck through his forehead?"

And then they said:

"Who gives a fuck?" Because they sure as shit didn't. Do you? Fuck you.

**Chapter VII. The Emergence of Marvel.**

Chuck Norris threw his special rappel rope down from the heavens and...well..._rappelled_ down onto the earth (what the fuck else do you do with a special rappel rope?). He had been given a special assignment by God himself: Eliminate William Blake.

**And now, a Eugene O'Neill-esque **_**Interlude Out Of Time**_

Now, dear readers, you might ask where do we go next?

I'll tell you!

We'll start with a brief summary of who is where:  
Cloud is a Jew and is soul-searching and has torn sphincter muscles  
Tifa is a sexual deviant and is assisting William Blake to eliminate Platonic thought  
Vincent is a Christian and is causing fecal and crucifix-related havoc  
Cait Sith is dead (  
Cid is dead (Vincent's reserve battle ax)  
Yuffie is dead (Vincent crucified her)  
You also might ask why have all of these events occurred to the beloved characters of Final Fantasy 7? Because, as many "wonderful" writers that have come before me have related at the start of their respective stories: "I was bored!" Just be glad I didn't choose to "pornographize" something of definitive value as certain nameless authors have chosen to do (such as _Julius Caesar_ or _The Great Gatsby_.)

So with the above information in mind, let us continue.

**Chapter VIII. The Destruction and Convergence.**

Cloud awoke in the disgusting hotel room with the stench of fish in his nostrils, a dead carp in trousers and an aching cock that throbbed with passion, power and pain in his all-too-tight briefs. He rose and looked down the body of the young girl (what age she was Cloud couldn't say) who looked pretty damn dead (what with a large fish hanging out of her cunt and an eel protruding from between those "come hither" lips.) Cloud whimpered a bit and then, because of the realization of his sexual fantasies, came in pants.

Yes, Cloud had certainly discovered an altogether new and entirely unexplored layer to himself. Cloud, discarding all the limited notions of virtue that he held pre-conversion, had discovered that what really made him cum like a bitch was to murder young girls and fill them with fish. He would then masturbate with a fish (hence the carp), a process which usually ended the life of the fish (hence the dead carp) and then could bust a load the size of a "fucking mack truck" to quote Stephen King, one of Cloud's favorite writers. To Cloud this behavior seemed authentically Jewish.

Cloud would hang around such stores as Bath and Bodyworks or Golden Corral, find a suitable "bride" as he called them, and then chloroform them in the style of the old masters. Cloud has used the money he had taken from the donation plate at Synagogue to buy a cheap van and he would hustle and bustle his way, of course carrying his "bride", shove her in the back of his van and drive to the room he rented from a Best Western on the far side of town. And then he would give them a lethal injection of liquid aspirin (or rather about fifteen injections of liquid aspirin that typically prove to be lethal) stuff her with fish that he bought from the Mexican pot washer downstairs and wait for the magic moment where he would burst like a big 'ole white kiddie balloon and splatter the walls with his trademark milky cum.

You ask why Cloud found this arousing? He got the idea from the serial killer in the Jennifer Lopez film _The Cell_.

So Cloud did this and then threw the bodies out the window. He didn't know what happened to the bodies after that. And that's what Cloud did to "Svend" (the girl he has most recently "filled with finery" as the process was called) and then, after dousing the bed in Windex and taking a fifteen hour shower, sat down and ordered a pizza. He afterwards lay down on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

Cloud never realized his fatal mistake: When you throw bodies of dead girls that are stuffed with fish out of the window people tend to get really fucking upset.

Chief Inspector Richard J. Dawson (the cop who had been assigned to figure out what the hell was producing dead, fish-filled girls in the Best Western parking lot), having just received a 911 call from an eyewitness (ironically from Pedro, the Mexican pot washer) that yet another dead, fish-filled girl had been sighted in the now-infamous for producing dead, fish-filled girls Best Western parking lot, stood outside Cloud's door armed with a magic sledgehammer (it actually was magic and could explode when asked to) and, taking a moment to pray to his Muslim god, kicked the door open and began to scream at Cloud.

(He didn't actually say anything, he just screamed)

Cloud was startled and came in his pants.

Chief Inspector Richard J. Dawson swung his sledgehammer and, in one decisive stroke, eliminated Cloud's infamous spiky cock that Yuffie had so desired before being crucified in her magic box at the hands of Vincent along with the rest of Cloud's equally impressive genitals.

Cloud started screaming (although unlike Chief Inspector Richard J. Dawson, he was screaming things like "FUCK" and "OW" and "Well I...To me the-the most...interesting...piece about Marx and the-and the fascinating thing about Marx is first of all that there's this whole other Marx...which isn't out there in the popular imagination, that isn't...what people think of when they think of Marx, I think that people still...ya know...oh...almost-two decades after the fall of the...of-of the Soviet Union still equate Marxism with Communism, with some failed experiment, um, in the Soviet Union in the 20th century, um, and that there's that whole other...part of Marx, that-that is so...that is still so relevant, that we still have to ask ourselves this crit-critcal questions, and to me, more then anything, the most-the most basic question that Marx confronts us with, and the most disturbing question, is what does it mean to live...in a world of commodifacation, what does it really mean to live in a world where ev-virtually everything is commodity and comes to us through a marketplace... um, and that there, and when-when at everything we own, everything we have, um, that it's...all commodity, that it all ultimately has a price, that our labor ultimately has a price, and, uh, outside of any questions of whether that's leading to an impoverishment of certain classes or not, um, that's very distinctive in the world we live in and...it's extremely important to us to understand it and to receive it and to trace down...trace out the significance of that, we know that in all those exchanges-someone is benefiting, someone is...is-is extracting...money, extracting-capital from those commodity exchanges...so, that has to be a gravity in the system, I mean, whether, you know, we're-we're under the control of marketers and stuff like that I-I-I mean-I think...that's...ya know...too simplistic a way of looking at it but it's certainly...the marketing of things that things-that things are...that-that...the very fact that things are turned into money has an influence and effect...a-a gravity on the whole structure or system, which has to be thought through for understanding where we are.

I think the other, more philosophical point that-that's there is Marx...is the whole...I mean...to me to heart of Marx is still the Marxist dialectic and the fact that within the process of exchange...um...a third term gets created...and that third term is, in a sense, subjectivity...and however we-want to define it, but, you know between say the exchange of commodity, if the residue of it, the thing that drops out of it, is money, just,-you know-which comes as just a token of exchange, a useful tool, but then becomes sort of a wizard or god of the whole system which calls the system into being...um...and that that money itself becomes...that's just a fetish commodity, but maybe the wizard or god of the whole system-that the controlling subjectivity of the whole system...um...so that we can see consciousness itself in a weird way or subjectivity in itself is a-in-in-in...in a weird but pretty direct way is created out of these patterns of-of...dialectical interaction or equivalence between things...um...and that these form in particular moments or particular webs of exchanges at particular times-um-in particular ways and-and transform over time...to me is...essential in understanding what we are as humans. So I mean that's sort of the...it's those pieces of Marx, which really don't have much to do with class warfare or...ya know...futuristic utopias which, frankly Marx wasn't all that interested in, um, still are there as sort of a living part of Marxism. Ok?")

Chief Inspector Richard J. Dawson (after absorbing Cloud's lecture on Karl Marx) threw himself forward and dove into the bleeding hole where Cloud's cock had been. His head was soon lodged in Cloud's stomach (quite bizarre indeed.) Cloud produced a jackknife and sliced his stomach open and began to kiss Chief Inspector Richard J. Dawson and shoved his 13 inch tongue down his throat. Chief Inspector Richard J. Dawson, forgetting himself entirely, screamed "NOW! EXPLODE!"

Perhaps Chief Inspector Richard J. Dawson was talking about the current situation in the American Stock Market or the cum within his miniature penis that he bought at Wal-Mart. Perhaps he was talking about the size of the world population (in which case, his wish has been granted) perhaps none or all of these things.

We will never know the answer because what happened when Chief Inspector Richard J. Dawson uttered those fateful words was that he magic sledgehammer exploded (which was about the equivalent of a hydrogen bomb) and the city of Columbus, Ohio just vanished. Cloud and Chief Inspector Richard J. Dawson weren't in the city of Columbus, Ohio (they were in the city of Kalm and it was fucking incinerated) but nevertheless Columbus, Ohio vanished (sort of like Jericho, Kansas except the opposite from what the new television series gets at.) What appeared in Columbus, Ohio's place was a city called Jerusalem and on top of that a city called New York and on top of that a city called Guardia and on top of that a city called Aiedio and on top of that and so on and so forth until every universe was connected through an ordinary household door (everything from the world of "Gods and Generals" to Tolstoy's "War and Peace".)

Woo-A-Hoo eh?

And because of this "universal connector", things like this can start to happen:

**Chapter IX. Transfer Into Yes.**

Squall Leonhart awoke from his dreams (he perhaps would call them nightmares) covered in odorless sweat, bathed in the diffused green glow of the cheap alarm clock he had purchased when he was last in a KFC/Taco Bell and overflowing with a pervasive fear of his own mortality (smart, because he was about to get his throat slashed.). He swung out of his bed, knocking his sheets to the floor, and stood in the darkness of his bedroom, clad only in a pair of sweaty sweat pants. Slowly, perhaps slower then he actually was, he moved to the table that he placed in the center of the room and took into his hand the bottle of sedatives prescribed to him by the doctor downstairs. They were supposed to help him sleep dreamlessly, sleep "without any journey to horror" the doctor had said while writing out the prescription which he then had filled himself. Squall pulled the top off the small (much too small) bottle and shook a few of the small pink pills into his palm. He swallowed them without the help of water and, in the fading light of the alarm clock, looked at himself in the mirror.

And he gagged a little because, to be frank, few people are hardcore enough to take pills without the help of water. And Squall wasn't one of them.

Squall moved towards his bed and lay down upon the bare mattress. He was drifting off when heard his door open, but thinking it was just one of those sounds created by the onslaught of sleep, ignored it and closed his eyes. This was, among many things, a dreadful mistake.  
For the figure that had entered Squall's room wasted no time in drawing an acid-green knife, moving silently towards the bed, and slitting Squall's throat. Squall's eyes snapped open and he let out a pathetic gurgling noise as life slowly seeped into the cheap hospital mattress on which he lay. The figure remained next to Squall until Squall was no longer alive and then turned and quickly exited the room, reflecting that Squall was shorter in person. Had Squall been able to see out of his bloodshot eyes (or had one of us been sitting on Squall's mattress) he and we would have seen, stenciled onto the back of the figure's dark armor, three letters: ROG. This stood for _Remnants of Galbadia_, an extremist right-wing organization that existed primarily to kill the main characters of Final Fantasy VIII.

Across the earth in the "fine" (for fine, read decaying or lifeless) city of Timber, Rinoa Heartilly sat in front of a computer screen in the "marvelous" (for marvelous, read ordinary or even substandard) new building of recently established Timber Communications Corporation (TCC). Rinoa worked as "Literary Editor", meaning that she and a number of soulless others read and reread the various publications the company writers had chosen thrown before the three CEO's of TCC (one of whom was the bastard son of one-time president of Galbadia, Vinzer Deling.) This has no real bearing on the events of the story, but it was true.

_and I'm not happy_ thought Rinoa. _When was the last time I was happy?_ Her hands moved silently across her keyboard, her fingers entirely disconnected from what she was thinking.

_probably had something to do with Squall. _She laughed.

_yes, probably had something to do with Squall. probably the smell of that jacket he wore or the way his hands felt against my skin_.

Rinoa tried to clamp down upon her mind, but, as many of us do, failed.

_Squall Squall, put it right in. No Squall dick is quite a sin. Touch my ass and taste my mung! I am sure that you're well hung!_

_  
whoa...where did that come from?_

Rinoa let her eyes float upwards and they fell upon a notice that was blaring across the screen of her company computer. It was, unhappily enough, the official notice of Squall Leonhart's death (released by the Esthar International Press or some such newspaper.) Rinoa's jaw dropped and nerves in her brain fired on a level far too powerful for her pre-frontal cortex to handle safely. Something had snapped or broken, a wire had grown white hot and set fire to those round it, the "barn was ablaze" so to speak. Much to the surprise, chagrin and concern of her fellow "literary editors", Rinoa collapsed at her desk, whacking her head against the hard plastic edge of her computer screen. They moved to help her, chaffed her wrists, slapped her cheeks and employed various methods of revival only to discover that Rinoa had entered some tawdry imitation of death, a "coma" as it was called in our time (and, yes, in theirs. Forgive me.)Rinoa was brought to the Community Hospital of Timber (CHT) and she was quickly diagnosed as fucking insane. But now for other news, dear readers. News of a spiky haired karate faggot.

Zell had opted to return to Balamb and work as a solitary fisherman. He was uncertain why he chose to do this (he had, until Squall's accident, very much enjoyed the company of others.) Suffice it to say that he was unsure what he wanted his life to be and, without the others, lacked both inspiration and direction. His job as a solitary fisherman allowed him to live and kept him busy enough. He still lived in his old room in his mother's house but often stayed out far past midnight, usually out in his boat, looking up at stars. On such nights Zell often wondered if he would ever be called upon to fight again, but such thoughts were usually chased out of his mind by the knowledge that with the death of Ultemecia the world had little need of men such as himself; men who had devoted their lives to combat and mastering the Art of War.

**Chapter X. Marvelous Deeds.**

It is on such a night that we join Zell, sitting alone and a bit unhappy and smoking a cigarette and throwing out his nets for the tenth or fifteenth time. And then a special rappel rope landed in his boat. Zell looked up and was genuinely surprised to see Chuck Norris descend from the heavens and into his boat.

"I'm looking for William Blake" Norris said as he coiled his special rappel rope and flashed the camera with a smile.

"Who the fuck is William Blake?" was all Zell managed to say. And when he did, somewhere, in some time-zone, a medieval catholic scholar of Plato was like "fuck yes brother!" Norris looked displeased and clicked his teeth together menacingly.

"Who the fuck are the you?"  
Zell smiled. He knew the answer to this one.

"I am Zell Dincht. I saved the world and now I am a fisherman."  
Norris smiled. He knew what to do with this Zell Dinchfuck.

"Buddy, you're just another sweat-shop promoting, Jew-hating, KKK supporting, Adolph Hitler-esque son of a bitch."

Zell was, understandably, a little stunned.

"Wha...what?"

Norris smiled a wider smile.

"I was hopin' you'd say that." And then Chuck Norris ate Zell's face. Zell started screaming and flailing his arms about wildly (which didn't do him a lick a good, seeing as his fucking face had been consumed.) Norris reached into his bag of plenty and pulled out a gigantic, golden robotic arm. He raised it high above his head and brought it down with fearsome force into the bloody mess that used to be Zell's face. Again and again the robotic arm dug deeper and deeper into Zell's head. A causal spectator would have heard Norris screaming:

"YES! I FUCKING REMEMBER THIS, OKAY? I FUCKING WELL REMEMBER THIS! SO DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING ASK ME IF I REMEMBER THIS! GOT IT? BECAUSE I DO! I REMEMBER THIS QUITE WELL IN FACT! DESPITE WHAT YOU MAY THINK, IT IS QUITE DIFFICULT TO FORGET A GIGANTIC, GOLDEN ROBOTIC ARM. I HOPE YOU HAVE A NICE AFTERNOON! fuck."

And by the time Norris had finished his clearly-protestant rant, Zell didn't have a head. Or a body. He was a mass of bloody flesh, broken bones and unrealized dreams.

(And BTW, if you ever actually _casually_ witnessed something like that and didn't do something and just sat there and partially enjoyed it, you're fucked up. It's a good barometer.)

Norris, after covering his penis with Zell's brains, realized that it was entirely possible he had entered the wrong Final Fantasy universe. He needed William Blake and knew that he was chillin' with some bitch named Tifa. And he figured he'd have to give her "the treatment" as well. The treatment involved pain.

Anyway, moving on, Norris put the gigantic , golden robotic arm back into his bag of plenty, cleaned his dick with Zell's oh-so-permed hair and jumped from the boat to the mainland. The distance was approximately one mile all in all. It was a big fucking jump. You probably couldn't do it. Norris reached into his bag of plenty and pulled out two different instruments. He turned on the first and realized that he was correct in his earlier assumption that he was not in the Final Fantasy 7 universe. The second device told him that for whatever reason, Tifa was in Deling City (which, dear readers, as you may know, is in the Final Fantasy 8 universe.) And then the device started buzzing and whirring and sputtering and before exploding like a firecracker informed Norris that there was a Tifa look alike in the Final Fantasy 8 universe named Rinoa.

Norris cursed Square for being unoriginal and therefore making his job of murder and mutilation and marvel that much harder.

(And, dear readers, just so you know, _Awesome_ is the power of William Blake and desirous thought, _Marvel _is the power of God. Remember that now, as Dave Pilky would say.)

Anyway, Norris hitched a ride with a Winnebago full of co-eds and fucked some of them to death and told the rest stories about how he was once the best martial artist in heaven and how no one gave a shit then and how no one gives a shit now. And that was basically boring enough that it sort of killed the rest of them, so Norris ended up driving most of the way. And he drank a fair amount of mountain dew (the soda, not the actuality.) Eventually he arrived at the Timber.

Norris walked up to the door, knocked smartly to let them know something was going to happen, and then, pulling a seven-barreled revolver from his bag of plenty, kicked the door down and starting blowing everyone to fucking kingdom come. There were some shocked onlookers from the street and several called the police, but when the detectives in charge of situations like this heard it was Chuck Norris that was getting his masochistic groove on, they promptly committed suicide. It was a very nice outside. When he got to Rinona, she started to scream about how she was innocent and just needed to see Squall before she died. Please, could he let her see Squall before she died.

Dear readers, let me assure that it was not my decision that Chuck Norris called his magic brutal chainsaw "Squall" and that it was actually that of the highly-talented writers of _Walker, Texas Ranger_.

But anyway, it was bitterly ironic when Norris smiled widely and whispered "Alright dearie" to Rinoa before driving a rattling and greasy chainsaw into her face, tearing into her skull and muscles, ripping out both eyes and piercing her brain. Norris smiled when he saw his handiwork and knew that Marvel was just one step closer to beating awesome. As per his fetish, Norris covered his man-meat in Rinoa's lavender brains.

**Chapter XI. Concept Awesome.**

Tifa awoke from a deep sleep. She had journeyed hundreds of miles, from world to world, passing on the story of William Blake and the essence of what is Awesome. She was actually in San Francisco at a motel 6. And she woke up and she realized with the utmost certainty, that she, Tifa Lockhart, was the second incarnation of Jesus Christ. This time however, it was not to God to whom she was devoted, not to Platonic reasoning. She was a devotee eternal passion, of powered energy, of the untamable, communistic human spirit.

She was the Ultra-Christ.

Silence. Darkness.

An end.


End file.
